


All the waves of our heart

by lafiametta



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Drabble Collection, Ficlet Collection, M/M, prompt fills
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2019-10-22 02:58:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17654753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lafiametta/pseuds/lafiametta
Summary: A collection of Jopson/Little shortfic based on prompts and posts from Tumblr





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for the lackluster summary, but I’m slightly hard-pressed to think of how else to describe it. The title (as always, it seems, when it comes to my Jopson/Little fic) is from Rainer Maria Rilke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [a Tumblr post](https://arcticelves.tumblr.com/post/181445118982/top-five-hottest-placesscenarios-for) asking for Jopson/Little assignation locations!

Their breath returned in ragged gasps, cold air burning in their throats and stinging as it filled their lungs. For a moment, Edward let his temple rest against the side of Thomas’s head, feeling both the steward’s heartbeat and his own as they slowed from a wild rhythm into one far steadier and more composed. Thomas’s dark hair was soft against his skin, and he smelled of clean linens and soap. 

Only ten minutes before they had been standing in the galley, overseeing the men as they lined up to receive their afternoon tea and biscuit from Mr. Diggle – a setting less likely to inspire lascivious thoughts could hardly be imagined – and yet in the midst of that humming activity, their eyes had met, the look they shared enough to spark an immediate and all-consuming blaze. And so when Edward flicked his gaze in the direction of the officers’ cabins, Thomas was quick to nod in silent acknowledgement, and followed discreetly after as Edward made his way down the corridor and slipped into a cabin one door down from his own. 

“This is Lieutenant Irving’s cabin,” Thomas had observed in partial confusion, the words uttered breathlessly in between ravenous kisses that seemed only to whet their appetite further. As soon as Thomas had slid the door shut, Edward had pushed him up against the narrow wall, pinning his wrists in playful restraint and pressing himself to the steward’s lithe body, chest to chest, thigh to thigh.

“He’s up above, still on watch,” Edward had answered, as he swiftly turned Thomas in place to face the wall, and from there began to tongue circles upon his exposed neck while his hands busied themselves with the buttons at the front of Thomas’s trousers. “No one will think to look for us here.” 

Thomas had nodded, stifling a moan, for in that moment Edward’s eager hands had found what they had been seeking. 

It was only after the satisfactory end of their exertions, after they caught their breath and began to refasten drawers and trousers against the cold, that they noticed the cabin itself, and in particular the walls, which were covered in at least a dozen small paintings spread out across the space. They all appeared to be watercolors, of differing subjects: birds, fruit, landscapes, even a portrait or two, although Edward did not recognize any of the faces of the men Irving had captured with his brush. 

“Lieutenant Irving seems to possess a great gift for painting,” Thomas offered, his gaze widening a touch at the sheer quantity of paper tacked onto the walls. 

“All men need their passions,” Edward replied, as his hand reached up to catch on the smooth edge of Thomas’s jaw. He leaned in closer, enraptured by the striking color of those pale blue eyes as they turned in his direction. “Perhaps Irving has found his in watercolors.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by @goodsir-is-such-a-good-boy's [beautiful Jopson/Little artwork](http://goodsir-is-such-a-good-boy.tumblr.com/post/182173785348/i-was-overwhelm-by-some-littlejopson-feelings)!

The burdens that press upon his shoulders are many, their numbers growing with each passing day. Each man must factor in his thoughts, each duty owing, each rotation of the watch. His mind is filled with lists upon lists: names, ranks, orders, infractions. His voice must be one of calm, and steady encouragement, and yet they must also fear it, well anticipating the harsh consequences that would soon follow upon any act of insubordination. It is a part he plays, a role, some days with ease and some with greater difficulty, but a part nevertheless – and there are times he longs to set aside the mask and leave the stage, a luxury afforded to him only in sleep, in those tiny hours sealed in darkness.

Until Thomas.

It was impossible to understand at first, what drew him toward the steward, only that it appeared by degrees, appreciation eventually blossoming into infatuation, and that it refused to be dislodged, no matter the effort he made. A chance encounter brought them together, offering the near-miraculous revelation of Thomas’s shared sentiments, and then they could no longer deny themselves, not in the face of such overwhelming and mutual need.

The private moments they have together are few, but more precious for their rarity, each one anticipated keenly and with shortened breath. In crowded rooms, their gazes catch, speaking wordlessly of promises and provocations, of all the things they will do when they are finally alone.

Yet it is the steward’s open and unguarded tenderness that strikes most deeply in his heart, felt both as an ache and as the gentle touch that soothes it. And in Thomas’s arms, the burdens disappear, the mask falls away, and he becomes something resembling himself, simply a man in search of some place to call his own. He finds himself clutching the steward more tightly, fingers curling into the wool of his waistcoat, face burrowing along the warm refuge of his jaw, as if by holding on he will finally be able to surrender. There they stand, bodies locked together, hearts beating in equal measure, and at that moment he knows he has found what he was searching for.

Thomas. His safe harbor. His shelter from the storm.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Horny but too Tired"

Thomas waited for some time as the ship slowly settled into a relative quiet. From the fo’c’sle, he could hear the creak of men as they turned and shifted in their hammocks, and more than once noted the stumbling shuffle of feet in the direction of the communal bucket that served as their night-time privy. In the cabin next to his, Mr. Blanky snored, a rhythmic wheeze that Thomas found strangely comforting, and that any other night might have helped ease him into his own slumber. 

Tonight, though, he was not counting on a good night’s sleep.

He waited past five bells, and then six, until finally, convinced that no one on the lower deck was still left awake, he slipped out of his cabin and into the passageway, silently advancing until he reached the last door on the right. With a practiced, careful hand he inched it open, slowly enough that the low groan of the ice masked the sound almost entirely.

The small lantern on the wall had been left burning, and its low light softly illuminated the half-recumbent form of Edward Little as he sat with his back against the bulkhead, a leather-bound volume lying open on his chest. He blinked awake, watching in drowsy confusion as Thomas slid the door shut behind him, and then with some stir of realization, pulled the book away and pushed himself to sit fully upright. He had stripped to his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, and a pair of dark stockinged feet emerged from just over the edge of the bunk railing.

A warm smile began to blossom on his lips, but even so Thomas felt a stab of guilt for having disturbed his sleep. Edward was responsible for so much – for the men aboard the ship, of course, and their duties, for maintaining discipline, and making sure the orders of the captain were carried out – and he deserved a measure of respite from such burdens. Perhaps it would be better, Thomas thought, to make some excuse and leave him to his rest, but at that moment Edward turned and swiveled to sit along the edge of his bunk, and with open arms beckoned Thomas to come closer. 

Thomas’s heart leapt, all thoughts of returning to his own cabin emptying from his mind. 

They found each other quickly, arms circling close, hands palming against fabric and along the warm nape of a neck. Under most circumstances, they were nearly the same height, but with Edward sitting along the bunk and Thomas standing close enough that his legs were caught in between Edward’s own, he had to lower his head to reach Edward’s lips, Edward in turn angling his face upwards as he let his eyes fall closed. They kissed deeply, languidly, like something from a half-forgotten dream, as they lost themselves in the touch and taste of each other. Edward snaked his hands under Thomas’s coat, pulling him closer, and then attempted to rise to his feet, only to stagger and drop back down onto the bunk under the weight of his exhaustion. 

Thomas smiled indulgently. 

“You need your rest,” he murmured against the other man’s lips.

“I need my Thomas,” Edward growled, and with a surprising show of strength pulled Thomas up onto the bunk and then rolled him onto his back. Edward’s legs were pinning his to the mattress and with their hips fully flush, Thomas could feel first-hand the evidence of that need, although he was fairly certain his own was just as noticeable. 

From his position above Thomas, Edward readily sought his mouth once more, the warm urging of lips and tongue – and eager hands – sharpening Thomas’s already firm desire. Within the confines of that ridiculously narrow bunk, they somehow managed to strip away Thomas’s coat, and then his boots. Edward’s waistcoat soon fell to the floor, followed by Thomas’s own, until they both were left with half-unbuttoned trousers, shirttails untucked but the shirts remaining as a final protective measure against the chill. 

Edward had shifted lay partially along his side, allowing some of his weight to rest against Thomas. One of his thighs slid up between Thomas’s, slowly moving higher and higher, until at last it could go no further, the tantalizing sensation of pressure and friction driving Thomas to even greater heights. He pressed his legs together, hoping to anchor Edward exactly to that spot, for how long he did not care – perhaps forever – even as he cautioned himself towards calm, having no wish to prematurely spill inside his own trousers. 

Their arms remained locked around each other as Edward began to press a row of open-mouthed kisses along Thomas’s neck. He feasted there, leisurely pressing and pulling along that tender skin, gently nipping with his teeth only to lap away the pain with the skilled touch of his tongue. Before long, though, his movements grew slower and more languorous, his kisses transformed into mere nuzzles, and the warm pattern of his breath lengthening into a deep and even rhythm. 

Thomas turned his head; Edward’s eyes were fully closed, that fan of dark lashes radiating down towards his cheeks. A tiny laugh escaped his lips and then he smiled – for what else was there to do with his lover lying half-atop him, now entirely asleep? 

He reached up, curling his fingers into the thick of hair that lay just below the base of Edward’s skull, and there they remained, brushing back and forth in a soft and timeless measure.  


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Jopson and Little getting caught by a member of the crew, who doesn't care and actually encourages them to continue

His mind contained nothing resembling rational thought as he pressed Thomas up against the paneled wall of the otherwise deserted wardroom, his hands grasping, greedy as an impatient child. The steward widened his stance to allow Edward closer, heat and desire quickly blossoming in the narrow space between their hips, fierce enough to rival the searing warmth of lips and tongues as both collided in shared need. 

It had not been a planned encounter, but rather one of opportunity – something they were afforded so rarely aboard a ship as crowded as  _Terror_. The captain had convened a brief officers’ meeting following the midday meal – it ended, as they almost always did, without resolving much of anything – and as Edward stepped back into the passageway, he had caught a glimpse of Thomas through the half-open wardroom door, stacking the sauce-stained china into neat piles upon the table. The steward had been humming something under his breath, utterly absorbed in his work, a length of dark hair falling rakishly across his pale brow. 

In truth, he had been watching Thomas for most of the meal, his eyes continually drawn to the steward like a lodestone, but seeing him in the wardroom – entirely alone, his handsome features illuminated in the warmth of the lantern light – was enough to arouse a wave of lust that Edward felt powerless to ignore. Succumbing to his urges, he had slipped past the door and tugged it shut behind him, and then without prelude reached out and pulled Thomas into a dizzying kiss. 

It was frenzy and madness, heightened by the knowledge of how little time they had, how easily they might be discovered – and yet they could not stop, breath overturning rapidly, desire coiling deep within the belly, fingers slipping past fabric and encountering smooth, uninterrupted flesh. With a fumbling hand Edward undid the first few buttons of Thomas’s trousers, and then pushed aside shirttail and drawers until the prize he sought was just within reach. Thomas panted, a low keening sound emerging from the back of his throat as Edward palmed him tenderly and then began to stroke. 

His forehead fell against Thomas’s, skin feverishly warm, their lips meeting again and again in breathless desperation, the rhythm a soft echo of the steady movement of Edward’s hand. The steward’s grip grew tighter along his upper arm, urging him onward, fueling his own aching need—

With no apparent warning, the door to the passageway slid open, and, startled from their reverie, the two of them hastily broke apart. Thomas barely had time to pull his coat closed over his partially unbuttoned trousers before the doorway revealed the fair-haired form of Dr. McDonald. 

He glanced over and took them both in, and Edward could feel his racing heart begin to still with icy fear, for while they had been quick enough not to be caught outright, it would no doubt still seem suspicious that they were together in the wardroom, engaged in some private activity, the door shut tight. Moreover, one look at Thomas – cheeks flushed, collar tugged out of place, lips pink and ripely swollen – and the doctor could easily guess what had been taking place just before he arrived. 

The fog of lust quickly dissipated from Edward’s mind as it began to fully dawn on him what real danger they were in. Were Dr. McDonald to mention to the captain what he saw, or even make a formal accusation, as well he might, the consequences would be swift and unquestionably severe. Edward had once known a sailor hung for sodomy – he had been a young midshipman then, wide-eyed and impressionable – and while there was no proof to support such a charge against himself or Thomas, they might easily be found guilty of lesser offenses. At worst, a verdict of uncleanness could see him stripped of his rank, and Thomas of his position, and the both of them flogged, perhaps even imprisoned in the confines of the hold until they finally returned home. 

It was a possibility almost too terrible to contemplate, not just for himself, but especially for Thomas, who was guilty of nothing more than being in possession of an overly generous heart. And to imagine him disgraced, back bared to the whole of the ship’s company as the lash came down, bloody stripes marring that lovely pale expanse? Edward could not bear it. At that moment he decided, no matter the outcome, he would not allow Thomas to be held responsible for their actions. Before that happened, he would confess to having forced the steward into such intimacies by prerogative of rank or else by making some crude, uninvited attempt upon his person. 

And yet as Edward carefully watched the expression on the doctor’s face, he could see no indication that the other man had observed anything out of the ordinary in the wardroom.

“Ah, Lieutenant, Mr. Jopson,” he said, cheerfully as ever. “I seem to have misplaced my spectacles at some point after dinner. I’ve searched the sick bay with no luck, and then wondered if I might have left them here.”

Thomas, to his credit, appeared entirely calm, taking a step away from the wall as he fastened a single button on his coat to close it, a tiny, inconspicuous slip of the fingers that would draw little attention, despite its necessity. 

“I haven’t seen them on the table, sir,” he offered, “but is it possible you might have left them in your own cabin? Perhaps before dinner began?”

The doctor nodded, pursing his lips as he considered the possibility, and then skirted the edge of the table until he reached the door in the center of the wall. He pushed it open, disappearing for a moment into the relative darkness of his cabin, and from there emerged a small sound of satisfaction.

“Yes,” he said, as he reappeared in the doorway, clutching a pair of round spectacles. “I had forgotten them on my writing desk. Very good, Mr. Jopson. You’re a credit to your profession.”

He slid his cabin door closed again and took several steps forward, only to pause just across the table from Edward and Thomas. Was this when the accusation would come? Edward wondered, his chest growing tighter with nervous dread. Had the doctor simply been waiting to collect his thoughts before he made it clear to them what he planned to tell the captain?

“I’m pleased to find these,” Dr. McDonald finally said, as he absently tapped the metal rim of his spectacles against his open palm, smiling a little to himself. “At the risk of my own vanity, I’ll confess that I’m nearly blind as a mole without them. I can’t see much of anything these days, even at a distance. In fact, I’m surprised I was even able to recognize you both when I came in.”

He turned his gaze towards them once again, his expression open and direct, as if he did not want them to mistake his meaning. 

“And were I to come across the two of you in some other place, at some unexpected time,” he added, “I’m certain I would have absolutely no sense of what I was seeing. If pressed, I would only be able to report seeing you engaged in some form of polite conversation.”

“Of course,” Edward offered, not knowing how else to respond. The doctor did not reply, but simply nodded in acknowledgement, that wry half-smile still lingering at the corner of his mouth, and then made his way back through the wardroom door, pulling it shut as he departed. 

As he stood there, some part of Edward did not understand what had just happened – he and Thomas had been caught in clear violation of the Articles and yet there would be no punishment, no consequences at all? – but mostly he wanted to weep with relief at his good fortune, even as he was certain he had done little to deserve it. He glanced over at Thomas, who undoubtedly was thinking the same as he, and watched the color as it returned to his pale cheeks, for a moment reminding him of what they had been doing just before they had been interrupted. His desire was still there, right below the surface, but the fear that still coursed through his veins made him cautious, and it seemed foolish to risk fate twice in one afternoon. 

So instead of pulling the steward into his arms, as so much of him longed to do, he reached down and clasped his hand, intertwining Thomas’s warm fingers with his own. 

“Come to my cabin tonight, during first watch,” he murmured, feeling an anticipatory smile bubble to his lips, “and we might continue where we left off.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Dinner"

It was nearly eight bells by the time Thomas got the captain fully settled. 

For most of the afternoon and evening, Captain Crozier had been in a grievous state, sweating and shaking, limbs loose like a child’s cloth doll, or else retching out the contents of his stomach until there was nothing left, only spittle and bilious air, which his body still attempted to expel. Thomas had tended to him as best he could, preparing cool cloths for his brow and holding the basin steady as the captain heaved into it. When he shook, Thomas had grasped him firmly by the shoulders, crooning bits of childhood song into his ear, for as much good as that might have done, and held his breath when the captain blindly cried out, clearly hearing – and perhaps even seeing – things that were not there. 

 _“Fair… and proud of eye, Sophia!”_  

It was a reference, Thomas knew, to Sir John’s niece, Miss Cracroft, who had refused the captain’s proposal of marriage before their departure. Did the captain, in his delirium, believe he was speaking directly to her?  _“But… what of your uncle? Where is he?”_  The captain had turned his face into the sweat-stained pillow, muttering incomprehensibly.  _“All gone, lost… along a distant shore… there they wait…”_  

Eventually, though, the outbursts subsided and he stilled, his body wrecked with exhaustion, and at last fell into a troubled sleep. Thomas only intended to be gone a few hours, just enough to get some long-needed rest of his own, and then return to the captain’s side before the end of middle watch. There was, however, the matter of his empty stomach, for now that he was no longer focused on the captain, he could feel it begin to growl, most insistently – and yet the dinner hour had long passed, some time ago, and he had little hope that Mr. Diggle would have thought to set anything aside for him. 

In his cabin, there were a few squares of chocolate he had tucked away inside one of his drawers; that might be enough to hold him over until breakfast, he reasoned, especially if he had a quick pipe once he woke. Unlike many of the other men aboard  _Terror_ , he was not a great lover of tobacco, but he found it did assuage his hunger, on those occasions when he found it necessary to miss a meal.

The passageway was shrouded in darkness as he walked the few steps to his cabin, and in the near distance the fo’c’sle was as still and silent as the grave, save for the sound of the wind and the ever-present groan of ice against the wooden hull. In the low light of his lantern, Thomas could barely make out the shape of his own doorframe, marking it only by the brass glint of the handle as it caught the reflection of the flame.

Inside was not much better – and a fair degree colder, too – and he hastily lit the lamp along the wall before blowing into his hands and rubbing them together for the small bit of warmth it provided. He turned, thinking to find the chocolate first, and then crawl into his bunk, but all at once he stopped, for his gaze had caught on something sitting atop his narrow writing desk, which had definitely not been there when he last left it.

It was a tray, much like the kind Thomas used when the captain took his meals in his cabin, and similar to those occasions, it was fully laden with food: some salt pork and cheese, a plate of roast beef and potatoes in sauce, and two thick slices of bread, no longer hot from Mr. Diggle’s oven, but mouth-watering all the same. It was a bounty, to be certain, but likewise a mystery, for he had no idea who might have prepared such a thing and left it here for him, all without a word. His first thought was to Mr. Genge or Mr. Gibson, but both of them would have been busy with their own duties – Mr. Genge even more so, with Thomas no longer available to help serve in the officers’ mess – and regardless, of what he knew of both men’s character, it seemed unlikely they would do him such a service entirely unprompted. Nor did he imagine any of the officers would stoop to have a tray of food made up for a mere steward.

But who, then?

It seemed destined to remain a mystery, until Thomas spied what he realized was a partial clue: a small strand of fiber caught just along the handle of the tray, where the edge was beginning to splinter. He pulled it loose and moved to examine it more closely in the lamplight. It was clearly wool, for it coiled and twisted as if it had just been shorn from the ewe, and the color, he could see, was a dark heather gray. And suddenly his breath seemed to slow, the air struggling to push its way from out his lungs. There was only one man aboard this ship with gloves that particular hue, charcoal with mottled flecks of pewter, and he would know, for he himself had darned them more than once, mending a frayed cuff and a small hole along the thumb.

Still, he did not completely understand. Why would Lieutenant Little bother himself with Thomas, much less with the question of his dinner? Certainly he had more important things to do, especially now that he had taken over command during the captain’s convalescence, and it seemed ridiculous to imagine that the burdens which lay upon his broad shoulders might extend to preparing trays of food for his subordinates. And yet that notion did nothing to displace the small smile that began to appear on Thomas’s lips, and the warm sensation at the center of his chest that remained with him after he finally climbed into his bunk, belly gratifyingly full, and felt himself drift away to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jopson/Little: "Who's the barista and who's the coffee addict?" 
> 
> (So, yes, clearly this is a modern AU scenario! I've also drawn some inpiration from The Key of MGY's [Goodsir/Silna coffeeship AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15815517), which everyone should go read because it's marvelous!)

* * *

Edward Little was definitely not a coffee addict. 

Admittedly, he always had a cup or two in the morning, before he left for work, and then there was his late morning pick-me-up, often followed by a mid-afternoon refill, and sometimes, on those nights when he knew he would be up for hours with a project deadline, he would stop in at his local coffeehouse for a triple espresso, made as hot and strong as humanly possible. But he wasn’t a true addict, not by a long shot. It wasn’t as if he absolutely required it to function and he could have given it up at any point, if he was forced to. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t a problem, not really. 

Or, rather, it  _hadn’t_  been a problem – at least not up until a month ago, when Edward realized his simple habit was beginning to blossom into something that might well resemble an addiction. And ironically, it wasn’t a need for caffeine that was driving his compulsion, but instead a pair of startling blue-green eyes and a dimpled smile warmer than any mug of fresh-brewed dark roast.

He had been on his way home one Friday night, thinking he would run by his usual place for a half-pound of ground Colombian and a flat white, only to discover it shuttered, closed for long-term renovations. A quick search on his phone had turned up a coffee shop just a few blocks over – Franklin’s – and while he had no idea how good their coffee was, it couldn’t be worse than heading home without decent provisions for the next morning. Inside, it had looked like a typical Friday night scene: a scattering of patrons on overstuffed sofas, chatting or reading as they sipped their drinks, as well as a contingent of student-types, staring furiously into the glow of their MacBooks. There had also been some kind of open mic event going on; near the back, a young dark-haired woman was perched on a stool, singing and strumming a ukulele. She wasn’t half-bad, and Edward noticed that she seemed to have a fair number of clear admirers among her audience, including a curly-haired guy with glasses who looked thoroughly entranced.

Edward must have been distracted enough by what was going on with the musician that he didn’t turn to face the counter until he was right in front of it, and then he found himself incapable of moving at all. 

It wasn’t just that the barista standing across from him was insanely good-looking – even though he was – or that he was sporting the most adorable pink-cheeked grin or that his ink black, deeply-parted hair was falling across his brow in a casual, yet completely devastating way.  

No, it was really the combination of all those things – along with the fact that his eyes seemed to flash with a sudden spark of curiosity as their gazes crossed – that caused Edward’s pulse to suddenly jump upwards, even as the rest of his body remained frozen into place. 

“Hey… what can I get for you?” 

Edward’s mind unfolded into a dazzling array of responses, few of which were decent enough to utter in public, much less to a complete stranger. It was impossible to know what to say, until he realized he needed to say  _something_ – and for god’s sake  _stop staring_  – before he began to look like the stupidest, or possibly the creepiest, guy on the planet. He must have managed to mumble out something reasonable, because suddenly he was reaching for his wallet and handing over his card, although he made sure to stuff a few dollars in the tip jar, too. Even the time he stood to wait for his order seemed far too brief – mostly because he got to watch the barista at work – and in what seemed like the blink of an eye he found himself back out on the sidewalk, a half-pound bag of beans in one hand and a steaming flat white in the other, his name written in jaunty capital letters across the side of the cup. He didn’t bother to wait until he got back to his car to take a sip.

It was probably the best flat white he had ever tasted. 

A post-work visit to Franklin’s soon became a regular part of Edward’s daily routine, at first just involving to-go orders and take-out cups, but eventually progressing to longer stays where he settled in with a ceramic mug on one of the couches by the window. (He had once tried going by in the morning on his way to work, and found that not only was the gorgeous barista not on shift, there was apparently an entirely new crew behind the counter, overseen by a lanky, wavy-haired supervisor, who seemed oddly fastidious about his clothes and in keeping his white knit sweater as free as possible from coffee stains.) In time, Edward got to recognize the regulars: not just the ukulele player and her number one fan, but also the couple who came in and read quietly together, and while it struck him as a bit of a May-December pairing, the two men looked to be entirely devoted to each other. 

And then there was the barista. 

Edward did his best to play it cool, and hoped that he wasn’t coming across like some kind of weirdo stalker. When he went up to order at the counter, he kept it brief; he didn’t want to pressure the guy into chatting, especially if he wasn’t interested. Besides, he reasoned, only a jerk would try to hit on someone when they were at work. It was true that the barista always had a smile for him, a mischievous little quirk of the lips that never failed to set Edward’s heart racing, but it was just as possible that he might be like that with everyone, and Edward the poor loser who couldn’t tell the difference between mutual interest and good customer service.

Even so, he could tell he was beginning to develop an addiction to this place, not just for the coffee – which, admittedly, was fantastic – but for the man who made it for him, whose face he come close to memorizing after nights of careful study, but whose name he had yet to learn. 

One evening, after ordering his regular at the counter, he went to drop off his work bag in an open seat, only to hear his name and drink being called out over the shriek of the espresso machine.

“Double cappuccino for Edward…?”

He had picked it up and was half-way back to his couch when he realized that he must have taken the wrong order, as someone else’s name was written across the side of his ceramic mug. The dark-haired barista gave him a quick glance as he approached the counter, and Edward did his best to ignore the fluttering sensation already starting to take hold in the depths of his stomach. 

“Sorry,” he said, sliding the mug and saucer back onto the counter. “I think this belongs to someone else.”

The barista grinned, two perfectly curved dimples forming just past the corners of his mouth. His blue-green eyes seemed to twinkle – although it was entirely possible that by this point Edward was simply hallucinating by allowing his own personal fantasies to crowd out reality.

“No, that’s definitely yours.”

“But…” Edward began to protest, mostly out of confusion, “that’s not my name.” He pointed to the side of the mug, where a single word was written out in a familiar all-caps script:  _TOM_. 

“I didn’t say it was your name,” the barista replied, biting down playfully against his bottom lip. “Because it’s mine.”

“Oh,” was all Edward was capable of replying. He had played out this moment – or at least ones similar to it – in his head so many times, and in all those scenarios, he had always known exactly what to do and the right words to say, all of which had now fled his mind entirely.

“And here…” Tom – and honestly, Edward thought, who could imagine a more perfect name than that? – turned the mug halfway around, revealing a line of numbers written in dark ink. “That’s my number. In case you ever want to hang out some time.”

“Yeah,” Edward muttered, and then began to nod vigorously as the realization of what was happening overtook him. “Absolutely. That sounds great.” He felt a warm, unprompted smile begin to form on his lips. “We could go get coffee or something.”

Tom turned that brilliant blue-green gaze directly on him and he laughed, his teasing grin wide and bright enough to rival the mid-day sun in all its glory.  

“ _Anything_  but that.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Selkie AU (with some minor variations!)

In the dream, he was drowning. 

The water, too, was blindingly cold, like the prick of a thousand needles against his skin, and as Thomas attempted to fight his way to the surface, he realized that a lack of air might be the least of his problems. His limbs thrashed in desperation, yet he still felt them turning slow and heavy, paralyzed by the icy grasp of the current. He was almost to the point of surrendering – and letting the sea take him entirely – when something brushed against his leg, and then his arm, and then his side.

He was not alone in the water. 

For some reason, he felt no fear, not even when it swam underneath him, its bulk more prodigious than he had first imagined, and then rose upwards so that Thomas fell along its back. His fingers, nearly frozen stiff with cold, somehow reached out and curled themselves into something thick and soft – fur, he realized. He found the strength to grab onto it, and not a moment too soon, for it began to swim again, paddling upwards with massive paws, until it breached the surface of the water. Thomas gasped, drawing in lungfuls of sweet air, until he had taken his fill. Half-drowned and utterly spent, he laid his cheek against the thing’s back and watched as it skimmed through the current, its pale pelt contrasting with the inky dark of the sea. 

Suddenly, it heaved itself up, front paws resting along the edge of a shelf of ice, followed by its hindquarters. Thomas slid off its back and onto the ice – it was harder to hold on, now they were no longer in the water – and then began to violently shake, all at once realizing the danger he was in. For while he was now no longer in danger of drowning, the cold could just as easily kill him, and with no fire and no shelter, he had little hope of finding a way to keep himself alive. 

The thing, though, seemed to understand, for it laid down next to him, shifting closer and – despite its immense size – curling its thick, fur-covered limbs around Thomas until it encircled him completely. He wondered if he ought to feel afraid, and yet he did not – only safe and protected and increasingly more warm as the beast’s body heat sank through layers of cloth and skin, bringing sensation back into Thomas’s frozen arms and legs. Drowsiness began to overtake him, but before he could succumb to his exhaustion, he turned to look at it, wanting to at last lay eyes on face of the thing that had pulled him from the sea. Its snout was long and sloped, with a pitch-black nose and two small, rounded ears at the crown of its head. Its fur, now fully dried in the pale Arctic sun, was snowy white, shading into the lightest gray around the muzzle. But it was the creature’s eyes that struck him, for their color – a rich, dark brown hue – seemed strangely familiar, and they burned with fierce intelligence, as if they wished to convey some message that could not be fully uttered. For a fleeting moment, Thomas wondered what it might be, and then he felt himself drifting off into the comforting oblivion of sleep. 

When he woke again, it was in the arms of his lover, and rather than resting on a shelf of ice, he was confined to the narrow length of a ship’s bunk. 

Edward reached out to graze his thumb along Thomas’s jaw. “You were smiling in your sleep,” he murmured. 

“I was dreaming,” Thomas replied, his voice thick with drowsiness. 

And it  _had_  been a dream, all of it – the sea and the cold, the sensation of drowning, the beautiful creature that had protected him and saved him and breathed life back into his body. But as he caught Edward’s gaze – and watched those dark eyes looking back at him, pinpoints of lantern light reflecting at their edges – he couldn’t help but wonder, just a little. The sea held mysteries greater than any man could fathom, he well knew, and as he pulled Edward closer, encountering bare skin rather than the thickness of fur, he wanted nothing more than to be enchanted. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jopson/Little Footballer AU drabble (with [an accompanying moodboard](http://lafiametta.tumblr.com/post/183854863672/edward-little-thomas-jopson-footballers-au-for)!)

Tom Jopson always dreamed of being a top football agent. He loved every part of it, from the high-pressure contract negotiations to the logistics of brand management to helping players craft just the right profile on social media. It always seemed like the best place to be: part of the action, but just behind the scenes. Everything was going exactly to plan – he was one of the youngest and most successful agents at his company, with dreams of founding his own someday – up until a single client threw his carefully-ordered life into unexpected disarray.  

Ed Little was a local boy, from Collyhurst, a talented up-and-coming midfielder who was as explosive on the pitch as he was quiet and camera-shy off it. It would be up to Tom to shepherd him through all the money, fame, and media attention that was about to come flooding in his direction. To his surprise, though, Ed didn’t appear all that interested in the money or the limelight – or in the women who practically threw themselves all over him each time he went out in public – but seemed content to spend his free time nursing a pint of lager at his old neighborhood pub, often with Tom in the seat right beside him. 

It was just part of the job, Tom told himself, as they stayed until closing and then shared a taxi back to Ed’s newly-purchased penthouse loft. He was just looking out for his client, making sure he didn’t get into any trouble on the way home. Or at least that’s what he told himself until they stood silently in the darkness of the living room, city lights from the floor-to-ceiling windows spilling across one side of Ed’s devastatingly handsome face. And as they reached for each other, lips parting in anticipation, Tom knew – despite all his well-laid plans – nothing would be the same ever again. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jopson/Little World War II AU ficlet (with [an accompanying moodboard](http://lafiametta.tumblr.com/post/183953132022/edward-little-thomas-jopson-world-war-ii-au-he)!)

He fell in love with Thomas the moment he saved his life.

Everything had been calm, orderly – until they were met with a sudden barrage of gunfire emerging from a wooded rise just beyond the road to Liège. Most of the men were able to get to cover, but Edward could see that one of them – the commanding officer’s new aide-de-camp – had not yet made it to safety. Without a thought for himself, Edward ran forward and threw the other man down to the ground, only to feel a sharp stab of pain radiating down his arm. The sensation paled, however, once he raised his head and gazed into a pair of luminous sea-colored eyes, perhaps the most beautiful he had ever seen.

Thomas Jopson – for that was the aide-de-camp’s name – had been shot in the shoulder, and the bullet had passed through him and into Edward, a strange link of fate that he had time enough to contemplate as he sat propped up in the recovery ward, with Thomas occupying the bed beside his. Despite the ache in his arm and the war raging all around them, those few short days were some of the most wonderful in Edward’s life, as he came to learn more of Thomas and his kind and generous spirit, and as he realized – to his astonishment and delight – that Thomas felt the same as he did.

The night before he was to return to his brigade, he had waited until the matron had completed the last of her rounds and turned down the lights, and then he slipped into Thomas’s bed, quietly so as not to wake the other men in the ward. There they held each other, and kissed, and whispered tenderly with words of hope and new-found joy. They swore to write as often as they could and Thomas made him promise, once the war was over, that he would come and find him. He had Edward memorize an address in Marylebone, a small flat that Thomas shared with his father and brother – assuming the building still stood, and had not been reduced to rubble by the Luftwaffe.

Thomas was true to his word: within a week, the first letter arrived with Edward’s name, and then another and another. He read them all with care, savoring each description and turn of phrase, his heart growing with love for Thomas with every line. They would end, inevitably, with some term of endearment that never failed to bring warmth to Edward’s cheeks.

My sweet. My dearest. My heart.

He kept the letters with him, folded and tied together in the pocket of his coat, and as they fought their way into Germany – past bombed bridges and emptied villages and bodies left to rot by the roadside – he imagined the words as a shield, somehow protecting him from full brunt of the horrors that the war had unleashed. Their pace was relentless, so it was not always easy for him to write back, and Edward wasn’t certain if the few letters he had managed to send to Thomas had even reached him at all.

On that May morning when the commanding officers told them the news – that Germany had surrendered, that the war was over – he wept, and at last allowed himself a moment to think about what the future might look like, for both him and Thomas. It was overwhelming to consider, equally terrifying and exhilarating, but it was a future he could not let slip through his fingers.

Two months later, dressed in drab civilian clothes, Edward knocked on the door of a third-storey flat, hat in hand, heart firmly lodged in his throat. The person who answered was an older woman, hair mottled with gray, and for a moment he stood there, dumbfounded, not knowing what to do. But then he heard his name, muttered in disbelief, and he turned back into the hallway to catch the achingly familiar sight of Thomas Jopson, coming up the stairwell, looking as if he had just seen a ghost.

He could barely breathe, but it was no matter, for all at once, Thomas’s arms were around him, pulling him close, a hand clasped along the back of his neck.

You’re alive, he whispered. You came back.

In an instant, it all became clear to Edward: Thomas must not have received any of his letters, for he must have sent them to the wrong address. It was merely a question of transposing a pair of numbers, and yet it had been enough for Thomas to think him dead or – just as likely – that his feelings had changed, weakened by the strains of time and distance. 

And yet, he explained, once Thomas pulled him into the privacy of his own flat, his feelings were undiminished, perhaps even stronger than they had been on the day they parted, and he showed Thomas the letters he had kept, explaining how they had kept him safe during those final months, through all he had witnessed. They found each other once more, hands and lips meeting tentatively at first and then with greater need, but their time, they knew, was brief, for soon enough Thomas’s father and brother would be home, and no doubt they would have questions about Edward and the nature of his visit.

I’ll come back for you tomorrow, Edward told him, just before he stood to leave. I know somewhere we might go. 

The place in question was a small stone cottage, built nearly a century earlier and owned by Edward’s parents until they had died, just before the war. It was only an hour’s drive from London, though, and on the ride up, he could not help but flick his gaze away from the road and towards Thomas, despite the hazard. In the end, he settled for slipping his hand into Thomas’s, warm fingers wrapped around his own. It was nearly impossible to believe that they had survived so much – and yet here they were, at last together – and it filled Edward with such overpowering joy that he thought his heart might break from it. 

The cottage was tiny and dusty and absolutely perfect. They bought eggs and meat from a nearby farmer, enough for a hearty supper, and laid a fire in the hearth, which smoked at first but then filled the space with comforting warmth. There, on the sofa, they kissed and touched and began to learn more and more of each other, delighting in each new discovery. After a time, Thomas stood and took Edward’s hand, and led him in the direction of the bedroom. Shirts were easily discarded, and trousers too, until there was nothing left to separate them, not an ocean or a war or the unforgiving judgment of society. 

Edward traced his fingertips along the shiny pink scar at Thomas’s shoulder, marveling at the miracle that had saved him, and brought them together. He brushed his lips against it, as softly as he could, before moving upwards and catching Thomas’s mouth in a searing kiss. 

My sweet, my heart, Thomas murmured as they moved together in the darkness, an echo of the words he had inscribed onto the pages of his letters. 

My love.  


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1960s Hotel Assignation AU (based on [this screenshot](https://lafiametta.tumblr.com/post/185946514792/arcticelves-asked-for-it-and-who-am-i-to-refuse) from an Endeavour episode featuring Liam Garrigan)

He arrived early, more than an hour before the time they had arranged. 

It made sense, in terms of practical considerations – it wouldn’t do to have them show up at the hotel together, asking for a room – and Tom found he enjoyed the waiting, the long draw of anticipation. He made himself comfortable in the meantime, stripping to his vest and unbuttoning his trousers, slipping a cigarette from the pack and letting it rest between his lips as he held the lighter to the tip. Smoke filled his lungs, rolling through him like the calmest of waves. He stretched out along the bed, ashtray within easy reach atop his belly; periodically, he would tap against the glass, a clump of gray ashes dropping to the bottom. With each breath, he watched the ashtray rise and fall, temporarily transfixed by its small movement amid the stillness of the room. 

He might have fallen asleep – such was the state of his relaxation – if not for the lit cigarette in his hand and the thread of excitement stirring to life within his veins. It had been several weeks since they had last seen each other, owing to the demands of their respective jobs and, in particular, to the demands of Tom’s mother, who always seemed to be in need of her eldest son for some reason or another. But today – on this warm and glorious afternoon – everything seemed to fall perfectly into alignment, starting from the moment he had picked up the phone and heard Edward’s voice on the other end. 

He couldn’t spare much time, he told Tom, just a few hours – any more than that would surely draw his boss’s notice – but it was enough for Tom, at least for now. And as he lay along the length of the hotel bed, he found it easy enough to slip into a tantalizing reverie, imagining what he and Edward might do in the span of those few hours, his thoughts quickly colored by the memories of their previous encounters. 

Sometimes Edward loved to take his time, slowly ridding Tom of each piece of his clothing, tension building as lips and hands languidly explored each other. And yet at other times, the length of their separation made any delay impossible, driven as they were by a frenzy of need and equally-matched desire that left them gasping for breath before they had even reached the bed. He began to wonder which direction this afternoon would take, whether achingly slow or feverishly swift, feeling his body begin to respond to the prospect of either possibility, when he heard the brush of footsteps coming to a stop just outside the door and a key slotting firmly into the lock. 

A quick stub of his cigarette into the ashtray and then he raised himself up onto his elbows, gaze trained on the door as it began to open. 

Tom licked his lips and a grin widened on his face – as broad, he knew, as the proverbial cat that caught the canary.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [an absolutely stunning AU manip](https://lafiametta.tumblr.com/post/188054381297/sasheenka-edward-little-and-thomas-jopson) by @sasheenka on Tumblr

To return to London was to return to all the world, a maelstrom of sight and sound rudely compressed into the boundary of a few square miles. The streets thronged with men, women, and children alike, each about their business, carriages and omnibuses flowing through them like the currents of a stream. Voices carried from every direction in a multitude of tongues, hawking wares or else tempting patrons into the various establishments that lined each thoroughfare: music halls and public houses, gin shops and oyster saloons. 

To be surrounded by so many strangers after years of sharing the company of only a hundred other souls was strange indeed, but for the two men strolling side-by-side down Piccadilly, there was some pleasure to be had in their relative anonymity, in being both unseen and unknown. 

Much had changed in the six years they had been gone — the Queen, they learned, had given Her subjects another three children — and the fabric of the city itself had been cut and rewoven, old familiar haunts replaced by the gleam of glass-windowed storefronts, newly-painted shop signs swinging proudly above their heads. One in particular drew their curiosity: where once, one of them recalled, had been an old tobacconist’s shop, now stood a portrait studio, devoted to the new process of preserving images onto glass. The method was not unknown to them — the surgeon aboard their voyage had carried with him such an instrument, which he used to record many of his scientific observations — but neither had ever thought to ask for a likeness of themselves, at least not until this afternoon. 

On little more than a passing whim, they stepped inside, and within minutes the proprietor had them seated and positioned, backs straight and arms held stiffly along their laps as he went to ready his equipment. But in a moment of rare mischief — goaded, perhaps, by the excitements of the day and the fact that the portraitist had temporarily turned his back to them — the elder of the two reached out and without warning dragged the other man’s leg up and over his own, his hand clasping over the opposite shoulder. The younger man’s eyes grew wide in surprise and he quickly attempted to pull away, no doubt concerned about how such a scene might appear, only to have the proprietor suddenly glance back at them. 

“Oh,” he laughed, “very good, sirs! Just like two brothers, havin’ some sport.”

The first man chuckled, dark eyes turning to a squint as his cheeks rounded with a wry grin. “Do you hear that, Thomas?” he teased. “Like brothers, he says.”

The younger man looked to his companion, narrowing his gaze — and yet it was impossible to conceal the affection that lay there, swimming just below the pale sea-colored surface. 

“I am glad of many things, Edward, one of the foremost being that I am not your brother.” He turned to face the proprietor, easing back into the other man’s embrace, his expression once more a mask of solemnity. “Just like this, if you please.”


End file.
